


and time goes on

by LaLionne (otayuriistheliteralbest)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Porn with Feelings, Post-Hogwarts, Secondary Theme: Book Fair, Short & Sweet, Smut, Switching, Writer Harry Potter, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-10-27 00:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otayuriistheliteralbest/pseuds/LaLionne
Summary: Harry had spent the years following the end of the Dark War secluded in his townhome. He’d taken up writing to get out the churning emotions and fears that would well up inside him. At Hermione’s urging, Harry had sent off a collection of his short stories to a Muggle publisher. One book deal had turned into another, until one day a reporter from the Daily Prophet had sent him an owl asking if he were secretly writing under a nom de plume, and would he care to comment for the article she was writing? Several frantic phone calls to Hermione and Ron and a brief in-person interview later, and the whole Wizarding World knew Harry’s secret.Trying to overcome writer's block, Harry turns to a used bookstore, only to find a scribbled-on copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and stumbles, literally, across one Draco Malfoy.





	and time goes on

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt [#4](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/).
> 
> Thank you so much to GM for beta'ing this fic for me. <3 I enjoyed writing this fic, even if Draco and Harry got carried away and wouldn't let me write in peace without banging it out first. ;)

Torn and scattered sheets of paper covered in lines of ink-black type littered the rough hardwood floor of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Harry growled in frustration, tearing out yet another page from his typewriter, an old machine he’d purchased at a Muggle thrift store some years before. The page was filled with half-formed lines of dialogue that sounded like complete shite. 

Harry had spent the years following the end of the Dark War secluded in his townhome. He’d taken up writing to get out the churning emotions and fears that would well up inside him. At Hermione’s urging, Harry had sent off a collection of his short stories to a Muggle publisher under the pseudonym Henry Weaver. One book deal had turned into another, had turned into a trilogy, until one day a reporter from the Daily Prophet had sent him an owl carrying snippets from his novels asking if he were secretly writing under a nom de plume, and would he care to comment for the article she was writing? Several frantic phone calls to Hermione and Ron and a brief in-person interview later, and the next day, the whole Wizarding World knew Harry’s secret.

While Harry’s stories weren’t verbatim retellings of his experiences in the war and any characters portrayed were only loosely based off of people he knew in some way in real life, it was all there: his fears, his journey, the bullying by the Dursleys and his peers at Hogwarts, the deaths he had witnessed, and his own confrontation with mortality. All of it on the printed page for anyone who could read through the lines. Suddenly, the papers and university courses, radio talk shows and book clubs, were all reading Harry’s books and analysing every last line of dialogue and word choice.

“Ignore them, Harry,” Hermione told him over coffee one day. She broke off a chunk of her biscuit and dunked it in her latte. “All writers pull in some degree from their own lives, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. They’re just making noise because of who you are. Most of the time, they’re way off-base anyway and making assumptions that simply aren’t true. Did you see the latest analysis of your trilogy by the Daily Prophet? They said that the friendship between Jamie and Hallie _ must _ be a manifestation of our underlying sexual tension all these years—_us_—when everyone knows that you’re as gay as a maypole, and I’ve certainly never been attracted to you—no offence, Harry, dear.”

Harry grinned. “None taken, ‘Mione. We’d be dreadful together.”

Hermione made a face at him and popped the biscuit into her mouth. “Anyway, they’ll get tired of it all eventually.”

Harry’s expression soured. “I know that, but my editor is asking where the first draft of the next book is, and I don’t know what to tell her. I just feel like I’m all tapped out and every time I sit down to write, I’m left staring at a blank page.”

Hermione took a sip of her coffee, humming thoughtfully to herself.

“Have you tried researching at all? Take a break, read some books that have nothing to do with your novel. Inspiration can come from the strangest places sometimes.”

—

Harry found himself wandering around Obscurus Second-Hand Books, an offshoot of the publishing company. He loved this shop. It was quiet and musty, with huge worn leather armchairs in alcoves, and people rarely bothered him there.

He took his time roving through overflowing bookcases that lined the cramped, twisting walls of the book shop. Harry kept an eye out for a cover or title that sparked his interest, no matter the subject. His stack of books grew in his arms, making it a little tricky to navigate the shop. After a near-miss run-in with a neat pile of books against one wall, Harry noticed a battered old copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts tucked away in the stack. He snorted at the memory of his first meeting with Hermione on the train and added the book to his own pile. Harry had honestly never read the book, in part because he didn’t want to think about the past in such clinical and biased terms as the history books laid it out, but maybe it would inspire something in his mind.

Harry was just going around the last bend to the register when he bumped headlong into someone walking the other way. They fell to the ground, Harry’s books a tumble around them. He swore loudly, massaging his hip, which had slammed against the corner of the bookcase next to him.

“I’m so sorry, are you okay…?”

His voice trailed off as he realised just who he’d bumped into.

“Oh. Hullo, Draco.”

Draco Malfoy winced, pressing a hand carefully against the back of his head. Checking for blood, Harry suspected.

“That’s all you have to say? ‘Hullo, Draco’?”

Harry rolled his eyes and sat up on the floor.

“Well I apologised first, didn’t I? Let me treat you to dinner, as an apology. I haven’t seen you since graduation day.”

As part of a programme for all students whose education had been affected by the war, everyone in Harry’s year had been given the option to go back to Hogwarts as “Eighth Year” students, and a section of the East wing had been converted for their use, although they were still officially in their respective Houses. Headmistress McGonagall felt it prudent, given the circumstances, to respect their privacy and experiences of the past year.

This, more than anything in their time at school, had been what had bridged the painful gap between the Eighth Year students. They had lost many of their classmates in the war, and their shared experiences brought them all together in a way that nothing else could have.

Harry and Draco, in particular, had formed a sort of bond that few could explain and many a curious glance had been cast their way as they sat out by the lake chatting or did their homework together in silence in the library.

Hermione had accepted Draco immediately, but it had taken some time before Ron learned to trust him. With time, the others had as well. It became a common sight in the Eighth Year common room to see Harry laid out on a couch with his head pillowed on Draco’s lap, or laughing together over a game of cards by the fireplace.

Their classmates didn’t know, though Harry thought Hermione had suspected, about the night when Harry, drunk on smuggled firewhiskey, had kissed Draco in corridor alcove. Or the many very-much sober times after that. They had never talked about what they were doing, if it meant anything more than hormones and want, but Harry couldn’t resist the feel of Draco under his hands, the taste of his lips, the heady push and pull of his cock in Harry’s arse, or vice versa. He’d lost count of the times they’d found one another and come undone in locked classrooms, hidden corridors, the Room of Requirement, hell even in their own private bedrooms from time to time.

After months of give and take, they just naturally drifted apart after graduation, had lost track of one another in the bustle of time and life. Harry couldn’t say for sure if what they were to each other had been anything more than a fling to Draco, or even to himself. But now, seeing Draco’s rumpled golden hair and bright eyes so close to him, it was all Harry could to do keep himself from leaning forward to kiss him. 

Harry blinked, mentally brushing away the memories, and gathered up the books that had fallen to the floor when he’d run headlong into Draco.

“The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts? Really, Harry?” Draco asked, having spotted the title amongst Harry’s pile.

“It’s for research,” Harry said, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Ah yes, how could I forget? A pleasure to meet you, Henry Weaver.”

Harry laughed and stuck his tongue out at Draco. “Yeah, well, I have a draft overdue for my next book, and I’m stumped. Hermione suggested I read some unrelated books to kick-start my muse, and it caught my eye.”

Draco took up half of the pile of books in his arms for Harry and together they brought them up to the register. Shrunk and packed away in a little bag stamped with the shop’s name in gold lettering, Harry and Draco walked out of the shop together, chatting as if they hadn’t lost contact for the last five years.

Harry led Draco down the street to a new pub that had just opened up, with private dining rooms on the first floor overlooking Diagon Alley. Settled into their seats across from one another, the pair paused, and suddenly the facts of their past seemed to expand to fill the room. It was just the two of them; the waiter had gone off after placing their pints and food before them on the table, and would only come back if they rang for him.

“‘_And so he paused in thought, wishing for those lost school days, wondering where the time had gone and if he had missed his chance for something more_,’” Draco murmured.

Harry stared at him, baffled, and Draco cursed under his breath, shaking his head at Harry.

“From ‘To Catch a Dream’? When Jamie is so clearly thinking about Elias, and everyone from our world to the Muggle world seems to believe it’s Hallie he’s thinking about?” Draco rolled his eyes, but his expression when he looked back at Harry was anything but amused. Hope and fear seemed to blend into one.

Harry reached out a hand and took Draco’s in his, running his thumb over Draco’s knuckles.

“I wasn’t sure what to think,” Harry said. “We never discussed it, and then we were just… gone. You never tried to reach out—”

“Neither did you,” Draco interjected.

Harry grinned sheepishly. “Yes, neither did I. That makes us both gits, I should think. Would you be willing to start over?”

Draco pulled his hand out of Harry’s and stood up. A pang of nerves shot through Harry’s heart before he realised Draco wasn’t leaving—he was coming around to Harry’s side of the table. Draco held out his hand to Harry, as if offering to shake.

“Hi, the name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Harry bit his lip to hold back a laugh. He still couldn’t keep the grin off his face when he replied. “Harry Potter. But many know me as Henry Weaver, the Young Adult literature writer.”

Draco nodded sagely at this.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of your books. My mother especially is an avid reader of yours.”

“How nice to meet a fan,” Harry said, amusement lacing every word. “Tell me, is there any chance, Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, that you would be interested in going out on a date with a lowly author?”

“‘Lowly’? I think you meant to say ‘lovely,'” Draco said.

Harry let out a surprised bark of laughter, making Draco smirk.

“Also, I thought we were already on a date.” Draco’s voice was like honey and wine rolling across Harry’s tongue in a delicious symphony of flavours, the desire clear in his voice. Draco dropped the pretence of re-introducing himself to Harry and sat smoothly in the empty seat next to him. He quirked a devilish eyebrow at Harry, which sent a shiver running down his spine. Harry opened his mouth before his brain had fully processed his thoughts.

“D’you want to come back to mine, Draco?”

The blond’s smirk widened into a grin, a rare sight in public, if a private room in a pub looking out on Diagon Alley could be called that.

“With you? Always.”

—

Harry didn’t remember the details of how they left the pub, only the pressure of Draco’s hand in his and the overwhelming urge to kiss him. He held off—barely—until they were under the protective Charms set around the property line of Grimmauld Place. Harry felt their familiar tingle wash over him and the moment they crossed over the threshold into the entryway, he pounced, pressing Draco against the wall and touching every last inch of him as the world fell away. It felt so right, like returning to a favourite book after years apart, only to find that the passages were even more vivid than you remembered. 

They broke away from each other, panting, and then crashed together again and again, like the swell of the tide breaking against the shore, melding into one. They stumbled up the steps to Harry’s first storey bedroom, scattering clothes in their wake without a care for where they landed. Harry was thankful, not for the first time, that he lived alone and hadn’t taken up Ron and Hermione’s offer to live together.

Harry forced the door open, and they landed in his bed, a tangle of limbs and the last vestiges of clothing, crumpled in their rush to pull them off.

It was only when Harry had Draco under him, squirming and panting to pull air into lungs robbed of breath, that he paused to think about just _what _they were doing. He traced a rough finger along Draco’s face, his chin, and lower, lower… He grasped Draco’s bare hip to ground himself.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Draco? You know how the world is about me, about you.”

Draco growled deep in his throat. 

“To hell with the world, Harry. You’re the one I want, the one I’ve always wanted, and if one of us doesn’t put his cock in the other anytime in the next two minutes, I will scream my frustration so loud they will hear it at the bloody Ministry of Magic.”

Harry laughed and, biting his lip, silently Summoned the bottle of lube from his bedside table.

“Well, when you put it so eloquently, who am I to refuse?”

Harry peppered Draco with kisses to distracted him and opened the bottle, squeezing a drizzle of the viscous liquid out onto his fingertips.

“Spread your legs for me, there’s a good lad,” Harry whispered in Draco’s ear. Draco whimpered and spread his legs wide, planting his feet on the plush mattress to give Harry better access. Harry’s hand followed the months of memories of doing just this with Draco. The first finger pressed in easily, as if it had only been days rather than years since they were last together. Harry and Draco groaned in tandem, and he quickly added a second finger to the first, sinking in and out of Draco’s hole. He shifted with every thrust, and with his other hand began to pump Draco’s dick lazily, slowly, until he was a writhing mess under Harry’s hands.

“Are you going to—_ah_—tease me all day or are you going to—_oh fuck, there_—fuck me, Potter?”

Harry bit his lip to stop the smile from spreading across his face, and pulled both of his hands away from Draco’s body, making him whine in protest. Harry shushed him and poured a little more lube out on his fingers. He pulled the foreskin back from the head of his cock and pumped his hand across it, coating the hard length liberally. 

Draco’s legs automatically went around Harry’s waist, pulling him in closer to where Draco wanted him. Harry didn’t waste any more time, lining himself up and sinking into Draco slowly, allowing him to adjust to the ‘_so-full-fuck-Harry-keep-going-fuck-me-I-won’t-fucking-break_’ feeling.

“Fuck, I forgot how good you felt, Draco. How could I forget something like this?” Harry panted. He tugged at Draco’s legs, remembering how flexible he had always been, and draped them over his shoulders. Harry gripped Draco’s hips and pulled out excruciatingly slowly, then thrust in with such force that their skin _slapped _where it met. Draco let out a strangled moan, scrambling to grip onto the headboard with his hands.

The pace Harry set caused sweat to bead down his back, used core muscles that he hadn’t remembered using before. He leaned down, bending Draco in half, to press a messy kiss to Draco’s lips as he thrust in and out. Harry reached between them to wrap a hand around Draco’s cock, pumping along the length in time with his thrusts into Draco’s body. Draco came with a shuddering moan, his come splashing his stomach in a sticky mess. Harry wasn’t far behind him, his body a staccato of motion as he came inside Draco’s arse. Harry groaned and collapsed on top of Draco, letting his legs slide down from his shoulders. Harry ignored the mess of come between them as it dripped down Draco’s side onto the duvet.

“Harry, you’re going to have to move sometime,” Draco pointed out. Harry ignored him, choosing instead to nuzzle his nose against the crook of Draco’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex mixed with Draco’s own unique fragrance that Harry couldn’t get enough of.

“Nope, we’re just going to live here forever, right in this bed,” Harry mumbled into Draco’s hair.

Draco laughed. “As much as I would love that, I can feel your come dripping out of my arse, and you’re rubbing _my _come all over us. You can stay here to recover, and I’ll draw us a bath, okay?”

Harry sighed and slipped his now-limp cock from Draco’s body, rolling onto his side to stare at Draco. He traced a finger over Draco’s face, his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, down to his lips. Harry turned Draco’s face toward him with a finger pressed against his jaw to capture his lips with a slow, lazy kiss bourne of familiarity.

“Okay fine, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to behave myself any better in the bath.”

—

Harry couldn’t, in fact, control himself in the bath, and they didn’t even make it into the water before he had Draco sitting on the sink countertop, just barely keeping his balance as Harry fucked into him again, hard and fast. They finally made it into the sudsy water after Draco fucked Harry against the wall, surprising Harry with his strength as Draco held him up, legs wrapped around Draco’s trim waist. They’d needed to reheat the water, but it was worth it.

They tumbled lazily into Harry’s bed hours later. Draco was fast asleep in seconds, but Harry’s mind whirred. He got up carefully, so as to not awaken Draco from his deep, well-fucked slumber, and crept down the stairs to where his shopping bags of books had fallen in their haste to tear each others’ clothes off.

He pulled out the copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts he’d purchased and rifled through it, only to find that all of the pages had been scribbled on throughout the entire book. He scanned the table of contents and turned to the pages on Voldemort’s first rise to power, curiosity winning out over his trepidation. Harry wandered into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, barely paying attention as he let his body go through the motions while his mind whirred with information. It wasn’t just an old copy of the book—it seemed the previous owner had had their own opinions and thoughts on the topics covered in the book. They had notes about dates and events that were missing, whole lists of names of the dead from battles fought and won or lost, and anecdotes and behind-the-scenes tales that Harry didn’t even care if they were true or not because they had him stifling his laughter to keep from waking Draco. Harry found himself wandering over to his writing desk in the corner of the library, his tea half-drunk and forgotten as he pulled out his typewriter, set a fresh sheet of paper into the machine, and began to type.

Draco found Harry slumped over his typewriter just as the sun began to peek into the windows, a stack of typed pages on the desk by his elbow. Draco picked them up and carefully sifted through them. A wide grin spread across his face and he swooped down to plant a kiss on Harry’s exposed cheek, startling him awake.

“I woke up alone and cold upstairs, but now that I see what kept you away, I can’t complain. This is brilliant, Harry. Absolutely brilliant. Your fans are going to love it.”

Harry sat up with a pained groan, his vertebrae _popping _back into place after a long night slumped over his desk. He rolled his neck and grinned ruefully up at Draco.

“You think so? I couldn’t sleep and started to read that old, scribbled-on copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts last night and my muse just hit me like the Hogwarts Express. There’s still loads more to write, but it’s something. It feels so real that I can taste it.”

“It comes from you,” Draco said. “Your history, your past, your experiences. Of course it’s real, it couldn’t be anything _but _real. 

“Now, it’s early yet. Come back to bed?”

It wasn’t a question, not really. Harry stood on shaky legs and wrapped his arms around Draco, breathing in the scent of early-morning _him_. He had missed this, missed so many versions of Draco that only he had ever really known. He hoped to witness many more.

**Author's Note:**

> I just need to share this comment from when GM was beta'ing the fic because of how I phrased a sentence. It sent me into fits of giggles: "I don't know why but this phrasing made me picture Harry and Voldemort having a cupa in Grimm."


End file.
